


I swallow your heart and you make me spit it up again

by m_madeleine



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs in a Car, Facials, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-06 05:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_madeleine/pseuds/m_madeleine
Summary: After receiving the holy water, Crowley thanks Aziraphale with his mouth.





	I swallow your heart and you make me spit it up again

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the free space on my Seasons of Kink bingo card. I decided to go with "in public." Also a fill for [this](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=97640#cmt97640) kink meme prompt asking for public car sex. Additional inspo credit to Ocean Vuong's poem _Ode to Masturbation_, which put some lovely images on my mind. 
> 
> Title from Richard Siken’s _Dirty Valentine._

Aziraphale’s hand is already on the handle of the car door when Crowley decides he can’t just let him walk away.

“At least let me thank you, huh?”

He puts weight into the words so Aziraphale understands, and at the same time keeps them light as not to spook him.

This isn’t new to them. It’ll have been a couple of millennia now — his tongue in Aziraphale’s mouth on the walls of Jerusalem, Aziraphale’s quick, desperate hand in the folds of his toga in Rome; something that could have been a tight embrace during the cold, cold winters of the 17th century, if not for Crowley’s cock sliding in between the angel’s thighs. Always brief, always unspoken. They haven’t done it in a while. Not in a hundred years, give or take. But there have been even longer gaps in between, back in the day, and this time Aziraphale took initiative to find him. Maybe Crowley’s got room to hope.

For a moment Aziraphale’s face grows even more pained and Crowley almost resigns himself to getting refused. But see, Aziraphale has never once put this in words. Everything started with the Word, after all; somehow, in Aziraphale’s view, keeping it strictly physical creates plausible deniability, helps preserve some kind of twisted innocence.

This time, Aziraphale looks down, breathes out in a deep sigh. His legs fall open a mere fraction — and that’s good enough. Crowley puts his sunglasses down on the dashboard and leans over to bury his head in the angel’s lap. Aziraphale’s cock is still mostly soft when Crowley takes it out; he swallows all of it anyway, teasing silky skin with his tongue. A flick across the underside of the head gets Aziraphale to harden against the roof of his mouth. Crowley hums around him. Aziraphale cards shaky hands through Crowley’s hair.

“People,” he breathes unsteadily, “people might—”

“No one will see,” Crowley hisses in response and puts his mouth to work again.

What he doesn’t say: It wouldn’t matter if they did. It’s just what happens around here, angel. Don’t you know that? People swapping bodily fluids, high on a lot of interesting things, under the kind of lights that turn every stranger beautiful and enticing. Sin, sin, so much sin. It’s a wonder Aziraphale isn’t choking on it.

Crowley’s own cock is painfully hard inside his tight trousers and he gives himself a quick palm before focusing again. In a way, this is business. Could almost be written off as a necessary expense; after all, it was cold and lonely and who can do good work in these conditions, surely anyone would understand?

One of Aziraphale’s hands is ruining Crowley’s hair, the nails of the other scratching up the upholstery. Crowley groans around him, and Aziraphale’s hands fly upward to stifle his returning moan. It’s not only the people passing by, the streets around them. For Aziraphale, Crowley knows, any place feels too public, exposed to Heaven’s merciless eyes. He doesn’t know what Aziraphale usually tells himself, afterwards. If Crowley were a better person, maybe he would leave him alone, instead of continuing to tempt him into more distress. But it’s not like _better_ or even, Satan forbid, _good_ is anywhere near his job description.

Aziraphale lets out another stifled moan and tries to spread his legs further in the cramped space. Crowley hisses in frustration, then manhandles Aziraphale’s legs up onto the seat, turns him towards himself. The angel lets him, leaning his head back against the passenger side window with a thud. Up on the seats, Crowley kneels between Aziraphale spread legs. Now any passer-by coming too close to the car window would definitely be getting one hell of a view, if not for Crowley’s magic. The thought makes the small flame of hellfire within Crowley’s chest flare up. His mouth a small distance from Aziraphale’s cock once more, he glances up at him — and freezes.

You see, Aziraphale belongs in warm candlelight, soft ambient reading room lighting, or at the very least, the mournful rays of the moon. Instead, harsh pink neon hits Aziraphale’s features, turns them sharp. On his cheek, his lashes are throwing shadows like thorns. It’s the least angelic he’s ever looked, or maybe, instead, like he’s been remade into a fluorescent angel for the new age.

Crowley is so hungry for him he almost makes himself choke on his cock. It’s a bit of a challenge, every time, driving Aziraphale into such a state that none of his efforts to keep quiet work anymore, but Aziraphale is way past it now, letting out broken, desperate moans. Just as sudden as Crowley took him deep, he pulls off again, shoves a hand down between Aziraphale’s legs and buttocks and rubs a thumb over his hole. Aziraphale whines; come hits the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley licks salt off his lips, and slips two fingers up inside of him. Non-human stamina comes in handy. They don’t always overdo it, but they rarely take no advantage at all.

Then, suddenly, Aziraphale pants, “stop.”

And Crowley does. Snatches his hands back, puts distance between them. Aziraphale turns back as well, fastening his trousers; pulls out a handkerchief, so winded he forgets to use a miracle, or maybe still worried about attracting attention. Crowley doesn’t use one either, but that’s because he doesn’t want to.

He’s opening his mouth for some inappropriate quip or another, when he realizes Aziraphale isn’t meeting his eyes; suddenly, he’s not so sure this was a good idea anymore. Probably the definition of “going too fast”, actually. He’d hoped 1941 managed to smooth things out, but he should have known things were still too fraught for this kind of erratic acceleration. Despite everything.

“Do be careful with that,” Aziraphale says with a glance at the thermos, “please.” The car door falls shut behind him with a soft sound.

Once Crowley can’t feel his presence close anymore, lost to the labyrinths of Soho, he rolls down a fogged-up window. The sounds of the night filter in, clinking of glasses, echoes of music. Judging by the shrieking somewhere close-by, someone’s fighting someone over a girl, or a boy.

Crowley wishes they’d all seen. He wishes he’d fucked Aziraphale right up against the wall, no magic, in that unnatural sinful lighting, under the sign advertising lovely naked bodies moving in the night. Thinking of his hands under Aziraphale’s arse, Aziraphale’s heels digging into his back, Crowley gives himself a couple of strokes and quietly spills into his hand, an afterthought. Some tissues from the glovebox take care of it. A glance in the mirror reveals a couple of streaks still drying on his cheek, and he rubs them away, too.

It’s almost comforting to think about all the traces they leave on each other. Humans don’t shed like snakes, but even a slight drag of nails against skin will still come away with particles so small they might as well be invisible. It’s the only part of this Crowley gets to keep that isn’t just in this head.

Outside, glass breaks; two figures dash by, laughing recklessly, smelling of adrenaline, brazenness and desire. Crowley slips his salty fingers into his mouth and presses the outline of each of Aziraphale’s sharp eyelashes into his memory.

Who knows how long it’ll be until the next time.


End file.
